The Wyrmshade

Boundary of the North

The Wyrmshade begins where the Verdwood ends and the city’s markers thin to single posts. The Wardens of Rootwatch treat that line as the last safe step for routine patrols. A little farther on stands the Hollow Beacon, a glade set with the curving bones of a dead forest wyrm. The place is both warning and measure: if a caravan reaches the bones, the Wardens can still attempt a rescue; beyond them, only a Seeker writ and a clear plan justify entry. The Naath Council set this rule after too many families waited through winters without word. Lorekeepers say the shade is not a single curse but a mix of broken flows, old burials, and careless rites left to rot. Even when the skies are clear over Naath, mist clings there. Trails that were clean in spring close in summer. Fresh markers disappear. Reports agree on three facts: light fails early, sound is hard to place, and most roads do not return the way they came.

Old records kept under the Leyshade Cloister show that elves once crossed the shade to speak with the high country. Those routes ended when the wyrm bones first surfaced. The city did not declare war on the forest; it set limits. Shrines on the Verdwood side still receive oil and quiet words at the start of each season. The Council allows trained parties to step over the bone ring only when there is need tied to life, law, or the flows. Traders who try to cut through for profit lose permits. Even Seekers write their names at Ezra’s before they go and name a second who will speak for them if they do not return. In practice, the Beacon is a gate without a door: it stays open, but everyone knows what it means to walk past it.

Land, Weather, and Signs

The Wyrmshade is a low, wet forest wrapped in old growth. Trunks stand thick. Branches knit in close roofs that let in little sun. Ground water sits in slick hollows and slow pools. Moss coats bark and stone. Fungi grow in heavy steps up old stumps. Underfoot, roots cross in tight grids and trip the unwary. Even where a path should run straight, the floor bends without clear pattern. Dry days are rare; most days are wet or cold with breath that shows. When wind rises, it dies fast among the trunks and does not carry far. A fire catches poorly and burns low unless fed.

Wayfinders look for certain signs. Fresh sap on a cut stump marks a recent pass. Bark with straight tool cuts shows a thinking hand; broken bark and smear without grain shows a large beast or a clumsy trap. Rot pockets smell sweet and burn the skin. Some creeks taste of copper and should be avoided. Markers that last in the Verdwood fail here: bright-green lantern stones fade; resin cords lose grip; carved arrows soften in days. The Wardens switched to bone pegs and hammered iron where the city still tries to hold a line. Even so, a week can erase a route.

Rumors gather around places the city does not chart. People speak of a cairn that hums when the air stills, a dell where light plays tricks, and a basin where mist sits thick over fallen stones. None of this is posted in the Registry. Wardens say the only fixed point is the Beacon. All else shifts with weather, growth, and whatever lies under the soil. The Lorekeepers test the flows at the edge and record slow swings, but the deep runs are not mapped. The safest practice is simple: plan for mud, cold, and wrong turns; carry line; mark often; and turn back at the first doubt.

Inhabitants and Threats

Most creatures in the Wyrmshade are ordinary animals under stress: boar herds that break too fast, horned deer that charge when cornered, carrion birds that crowd low. Others are not so simple. Large spiders hunt from the edges of the Varnhollow country and lay veils between trunks. Owlbears range where the ground drops, striking without cry. Shambling mounds grow in old gullies fed by runoff and do not stop feeding until burned or cut apart. In some pockets, the dead do not rest; a single wight and a few loyal husks can hold a stand of stones against a whole party until dusk. Illusions and sudden chills mark the work of a lone hag who trades for names and favors. Those who bargain with her come back missing a memory they cannot name.

Worse than any single beast are the goblin bands that infest the shade. These are not loud neighbors from glades near Naath who will trade stew for music. Wyrmshade goblins are cruel and sly. They trap trails with rot stakes and glass, smear false signs over warden cuts, and stalk fires for the chance to knife a cook and run. They serve whoever frightens them most, and they change loyalties without warning. They laugh at suffering and steal tools first, food second, and lives if they can do it without risk. Guides say to kill on sight or not engage at all. If a goblin speaks softly, it is a lie. If it grins, it has friends you cannot see.

Other dangers draw Seekers by rumor more than duty. Some claim a young green dragon nests in a poisoned sink and calls itself Cyravax. Others speak of a ring where air thins and spiders step in and out of the world. There are stories of a banshee whose call pulls a person in circles over black pools, a path where lanterns die one by one, and a treant that turned hard and broke its own grove. The city neither confirms nor denies these tales. What matters for patrols is clear: do not chase lights; do not accept gifts; watch the mud for signs that repeat in a wrong pattern; and when in doubt, widen your circle and leave.

Order, Practice, and Purpose

Naath’s policy toward the Wyrmshade is firm and practical. The Council forbids casual foraging beyond the Beacon and bans any ritual work that draws power from the shade. The Merchant Guild rejects goods taken from unknown pockets within it unless a Seeker report and a witness name the place and route. If a family goes missing near the line, the Wardens set an outer search and call for a Seeker contract to cross the bones. Lorekeepers brief each party on known shifts in the flows. Ezra’s boards carry the writ, the reward, the time limit, and the sign to leave at each post. When a party returns, they record what they saw in simple words: water depth, tree type, ground grade, tracks, weather, and hazard. No one records poetry. No one uses riddles.

Shrines on the near side receive extra care. Wardens replace oil, set new stones, and sweep the soil before winter. Each spring, a public rite marks the Beacon with fresh white paint on the bones and the names of those lost in the last year. Families leave offerings and take them home before dusk. The Wardens renew their oaths in plain speech heard by all. The city repeats these acts not because it expects the shade to change, but because order on the safe side gives strength to those who must face the dark side.

Travelers who must pass the edge for work—surveyors, messengers to high-country allies, and certain herbalists under permit—follow strict steps. They move in pairs or more, carry iron and line, pack dry food, and do not start fires unless the ground is scraped to clean soil. They mark each hour on a cord. If the cord shows more hours than the light suggests, they turn back without debate. If a guide says “stop,” the party stops. If a guide says “leave,” the party leaves. These rules save lives.